


Dogs of War

by Saucery



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Males, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Dark, Alternate Universe - Evil, Bloodplay, Courtship, Dark, Dirty Talk, Dominance, Dubious Consent, Evil!Stiles, Fights, Flirting, Implied Knotting, Implied Torture, Kink, M/M, Machiavellian Plotting, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mutiny, Pack Dynamics, Really Violent Courtship, Rebellion, Recruitment, Seduction, Serious Injuries, Strategy, Subtextual Sadomasochism, Supernatural Elements, They're Werewolves, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Usurper, Violence, Werewolves, What Can I Say?, Wolf Pack
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-03
Updated: 2013-06-03
Packaged: 2017-11-11 08:38:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/476673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saucery/pseuds/Saucery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set in an alternate universe in which Peter survived the Hale fire intact, but still psychopathic, and took a recently-orphaned Stiles under his wing. Result: An ultra-violent young werewolf with considerable moral deficiencies.</p><p>Derek doesn't know about any of this, of course, because he left Beacon Hills a long time ago, when he realized that he wanted no part of his uncle's crazy vendetta against humankind.</p><p>But now, a boy named Stiles turns up in Derek's hideout in New York, ostensibly to recruit him for Peter's pack.</p><p>The truth turns out to be something else, entirely.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Creature13](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Creature13), [Kedreeva](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kedreeva/gifts).
  * Translation into Русский available: [Псы войны](https://archiveofourown.org/works/742828) by [Osay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Osay/pseuds/Osay)
  * Translation into 中文 available: [【翻译】Dogs of War](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4637769) by [Elf11](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elf11/pseuds/Elf11)



> Inspired single-handedly by [these](http://creaturexlll.tumblr.com/post/28623464326/my-own-private-sort-of-stiles) [pictures](http://creaturexlll.tumblr.com/post/26856123256/splash-of-smthin-unconscious-stiles) of Stiles Stilinski, drawn by the incredibly talented [Creature13](http://creaturexlll.tumblr.com/). You absolutely _must_ see both pictures before reading this story, or you won't get where it's coming from.

* * *

 

"Damn, kid. I really got you, didn't I?" The masked boy dances away, laughing, his bat dripping blood. Derek's blood.

"I'm older than you are," Derek grits out, staggering back to his feet, ribs already healing with an audible snap of bone.

"I just broke your ribs, and that's what bothers you?"

"Accuracy is important." Derek's eyes flicker over the boy's body, trying to pinpoint the source of his next movement, his next attack - but that body only goes lax, in a disturbing and - and _inviting_ way, as the boy finds a crate to lean against. Lounge against. Seduce against…?

"That sounds like Peter. You sound like Peter. Peter's awesome."

"My uncle is a murdering megalomaniac."

"Like I said. Awesome. He's got style. Like you do."

Derek is acutely aware of the appreciative once-over, even though he can't see the boy's expression. The red hoodie shadows his face, from which the muzzled mask protrudes, like a snout. "I don't murder innocent people."

"Define 'innocent'. I know you've killed. I can smell it on you. You smell good. Heh. _Hot_."

"Self-defense isn't murder."

"Define 'defense'." The boy swings his bat back and forth, in loose, easy figure-eights, as loose and easy as the spread of his thighs. Denim stretches across them, snug and skin-tight. "You'd also look great in a leather jacket. That's a definite bonus. Peter might not care much for the, how shall we say, _packaging_ , but I do. And you've got a nice package. Very nice."

Derek slides his claws out and calculates various angles of trajectory that might take him to the crate without first alerting the boy. There are none. Damn it. This warehouse is built primarily of metal, and every noise will reverberate loudly enough to give him away. On the one hand, hiding out here had given Derek the advantage of hearing any and all intruders, but on the other hand, he's never had to fight a battle here, either. Not against another werewolf. Let alone one of his uncle's pack.

"You're smart. You're canny. You're _family_. Which is why he wants you in his pack."

"A pack of masked, unnamed bandits isn't one I want to - "

"I'm Stiles."

Derek doesn't pause; he can't afford to. He keeps moving, zig-zagging unpredictably across the floor, edging closer and closer to the boy - to _Stiles_ , what type of name is that? - while considering and discarding several alternatives involving Stiles's internal organs and the pointy ends of Derek's fist. He won't kill the boy - he's _not_ a killer - but he has to get out of here and away from this maniac. Away from New York. He has no idea how Peter managed to track him here, of all places, but -

"Rude. Aren't you supposed to say something to me? Like, 'Hi, Stiles, I'm Derek'?"

"You already know my name."

"I'd like to _scream_ it. And not," Stiles flits away, birdlike, when Derek reaches him and tries to land a hit, "in terror or in pain. Well. Not a lot of pain. Would you like to fuck me, Derek?"

The suggestion has been there, all along, in Stiles's body-language. In his scent. But - "I thought you were Peter's mate." Which is… not what Derek had meant to say. He'd meant to say _no_ -

"Ha! His mate? Nah. Me and Lydia, sure, we have sex with him, sometimes, when he feels like it. But he's got another mate in mind. A human woman. To bear him cubs, after he Turns her. And her son, because she won't consent if he doesn't Turn him, first. Even though the guy's kind of an idiot. But he'll be useful, I guess. In his own way. An Omega."

"And I'll be…?"

"A Beta, of course."

"Won't that threaten your rank?"

"Oh, Derek," says Stiles, almost pityingly. "No one threatens _me_."

Derek snarls, doing his level goddamn best to be threatening, but the boy just laughs, high and joyous and bright, transparent as a shard of glass glittering in the darkness. He won't stop moving, dodging every one of Derek's strikes, wearing him out.

It's a classic textbook maneuver, and it should be predictable and therefore beatable, but nothing about the way this kid moves is within the range of predictability. This is obviously what Stiles has trained himself for, what he's focused on, instead of physical strength. (That's what most werewolves focus on, when they're young - often to their detriment. Derek ought to know; he'd been one of them.)

His claws catch on Stiles's abdomen and the air is instantly flooded with a coppery spill of rust, salt-rich and thick, that makes Derek slaver and his fangs lengthen and his gut _ache_.

Stiles is _moaning_.

What the -

What the fuck? How is that even -

"Oh, I like that," Stiles says, which is insane, and what's even more insane is how the sound of that moan had made Derek's dick twitch.

Why is he even _hard_ -

"What's my uncle been doing to you?" Derek rasps, instead, trying to swipe Stiles's legs out from under him - trying, and failing, because those sneaker-clad feet are still nimble. The scent of fresh blood has already been replaced with the dull-brown stench of drying blood, where it had soaked invisibly into the red hoodie. The wound Derek had landed on Stiles is already healing, werewolf-quick.

"Hm? Nothing much. A little education, if you know what I mean. Discipline, when I get outta line."

"You like it." What is Derek _saying_?

"When I'm hurt? Hell, yeah. Let's just say most discipline won't work on me, anymore. It's a tough job. Peter says I keep challenging him to be, heh, creative."

"You're both mad."

"We're happy. And you could be, too, if you joined us."

"Never."

And Stiles is laughing again, uproarious and free, wild as a creature that's never been tamed. How is he a Beta? There's nothing of submission in him, at all.

"Man, you're hilarious," Stiles chuckles. "Could you be more Doomed Hero Facing a Moral Crisis? 'Never.' Hah. You're straight out of a dime-store novel, you know that? With the broody face and the Heathcliff eyes. And the abs. Jesus. Those _abs_. I wanna lick 'em. Do you seriously just hang around here shirtless, all the time? Not that I'm complaining. Please, carry on."

The bat should slow the boy down, but instead, Stiles seems to use it to build his own momentum and maximize his speed, throwing each swing in the opposite direction from the one in which he intends to go, using its weight in counterpoint to his body. He isn't even slightly out-of-breath; he's using the bat to propel him, so he doesn't use as much of his own strength.

Clever. Damnably _clever_  -

And distracting, because Stiles is smelling more and more of sex, of fucking, of a good, hard _rut_.

"You want it," Stiles sing-songs, obscene as he strokes his hands over the baseball bat, firm and caressing, claws gouging shallow furrows in it, on top of the older furrows that mark it like scars. _It_ doesn't heal. "You want my fine ass, don't you, big brother? Big Beta. Come and get it, then. It's all yours."

Derek has no intention of -

He _doesn't_ -

Stiles is just a teenager -

Which is why Derek ends up pulling the punch that could've gutted the boy, because Derek's a fool, a bloody _fool_ , and then he's down on the floor with his skull ringing, coughing blood onto his chin.

His ribs are broken. Again.

Shattered, to be accurate.

Accuracy is important.

Stiles's sneakers squeak as he crouches in front of Derek, his sticky bat trailing wetly across the tiles.

His eyes, when he gazes down at Derek, are a burnt, glowing orange, fired clay from a kiln. He smells like fire, all lust and violence and pure, concentrated intent, the scent of him licking up along Derek's senses, dizzying him.

"And that," Stiles says, low and strangely tender, "is why you're a kid. Derek." He winds a fist in Derek's hair and yanks his head back, while the other unbuckles the muzzled mask, and -

Derek's looking up at Stiles's face, at Stiles's -

His mouth, so soft, so deceptively _soft_ -

He's still a child -

A child with fangs, because he leans down to bite Derek's neck, gently, and then swipe his tongue up to Derek's mouth, as cunning and quick and hot as the rest of his body is, a devilish whip of a thing, a slender weapon of muscle-and-bone.

A weapon now curved over Derek, a warm sickle in a red hoodie and ripped jeans, smiling, lapping Derek's blood from both their lips.

"You wanna know why you can't threaten my 'rank', Derek? Why no one can?" Stiles's mouth is at Derek's ear, now, a lush, electric shock of sensation, and Derek's harder than he's been in years. "Because not even Peter can. Do you know what that means?"

Derek chokes on more blood. Feels his ribs knitting back together. Tries to _think_ -

"It means," and Stiles's voice is a hushed whisper, like they're in a church, like this is sacrament, "that maybe, if you play your cards right, you won't be his Beta, at all." Those burnt-amber eyes are lit with an unholy light, and are so very, very close to red. "You'll be _mine_."

"You're - " Derek's stunned. He's -

Is Stiles talking about -

A mutiny? Is he -

"Some projects need teamwork, y'know? In fact, most projects do. That's what they teach you at school. Did you learn well, Derek?"

"I - "

"If you did, then come and join us. We'll let Peter Turn another one for the pack, let him do the hard work of securing one last Omega - but in the meantime, you'll be learning Peter's ways. Observing him. And waiting. For my signal."

Derek's almost healed; he could move, now, if he wanted to.

But the force of Stiles's presence keeps him _still_. And that's -

What that _means_ -

"I don't have to spell it out for you, do I? I'm just suggesting… that if you don't like how things are done in Beacon Hills, if you don't like how Peter runs his pack, then, well, you won't have to put up with it. Not for long."

"You - you don't - "

"Lydia's quite fond of Peter, but his whole getting-a-human-mate thing hasn't gone down too well with her. Not that she's said anything, but… she's a possessive one. If she can't have Peter, no one else will."

"That isn't very healthy," Derek manages, finally, hoarse through the blood he's still occasionally coughing up.

Stiles grins. "You're tellin' _me_. Don't get me wrong, I like Peter, too, but - he's sorta liberal with the unwarranted bloodshed. Not that I don't like bloodshed myself, but… it ain't wise, is what I'm saying. Draws too much attention. Plus, I'm the sheriff's son." He flicks his fingers, like he's dismissing something. "Used to be. Don't sit right with me, just letting my town get run into the ground by a rabid beast."

"You're a beast," Derek points out, disbelieving. He's being recruited for a goddamn rebellion after being beaten by a _boy_. In a warehouse in Brooklyn. It's surreal.

"Yeah, but I'm not rabid. Duh. Big difference."

He seems rabid enough, to Derek. Rabid and still smelling like mating-time, like the musk of a springtime moon -

"And you know what? You're sort of my type. An Alpha needs a mate, as much as he needs a Beta." Stiles tilts his head, staring admiringly at Derek's torso. "Maybe more."

"I won't - "

"Shut it, sweetheart. I can smell the massive hard-on you've got there. I bet it'd feel real big inside me. Even bigger when you _knot_. Mm."

Derek flinches away from Stiles's hand, when Stiles brings it into Derek's line of sight, but Stiles only runs the tips of his claws along Derek's face, as careful as if he's touching something precious, before pulling back and standing up.

"Well! See you around. I'll tell Peter it went smoothly. He'll be delighted."

"I won't. Be joining. The pack." Derek speaks as calmly and clearly as he can.

But Stiles only rolls his eyes. "Sure, Mr. Boner the Size of the Washington Monument." He hoists his bat over his shoulder and smirks. "You've fixated on my scent; it's obvious. You'll follow it back to Beacon Hills, once the full moon's out."

No point in denying the truth. But - "Only for the full moon."

Stiles snorts. "Yeah, right. Once you've had a taste of this," he pats his ass, "there's no going back."

"It's just a heat-bond."

"Keep repeating that, babe, and one day, you might even believe it. Not." And then he's skipping to the door, still grinning, without even bothering to clean his bat. Isn't he afraid of getting arrested? Then again, with the mask back on, he won't have to worry about being recognized. "Be seein' ya!"

Derek lies there, a few moments more, as Stiles's scent fades along with his footsteps, pulling a strange itch from within Derek's skin, like a hook from a fish's throat, an itch that somehow feels like it'd hurt as much to _scratch_ -

No. Just a heat-bond. The full moon's only a week away, and he's vulnerable to a particular kind of temptation, the kind he's just been offered. It won't last. Not after. Not -

_You'll be mine._

Not ever.

 

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Kedreeva. So sorry for the delay, my dear!

* * *

 

"Well, well, well." Peter lounges in his leather chair like some sort of demonic CEO, his eyes glowing an ember-red. "The prodigal son returns."

Derek straightens. "I'm only here to mate."

"So I've heard. Taken a shine to our little Stiles, have you?"

The thought of Peter talking about Stiles as if he were a child - _Peter's_ child - is sickening, especially considering that Peter's mated with him, too. Derek flinches away from the thought, knowing he'll end up attacking Peter if he dwells on it any longer than he absolutely has to. "Where is he?"

"Befriending Scott, as per my order. Did Stiles tell you about the boy?"

"Yes."

"Then don't worry about Stiles; he'll be home, soon." Peter gestures at the no-longer-burned wood of the ceiling. "I've done a fine job renovating this place, haven't I?"

Derek grits his teeth. He's itching with desire, and has no patience for small talk, especially not with his deranged uncle.

"My, my. The heat truly is upon you. You stink of it." Peter wrinkles his nose. "If it's that urgent, perhaps you'd like to have Lydia." Peter snaps his fingers, and the faint scent of a female that had been wafting through the room grows stronger when a teenage girl steps into it. She's startlingly lovely, her eyes bright and intelligent, and Derek blinks at her, coming to the uncomfortable realization that Peter likes them smart. It's a dangerous preference to have.

"I'm not for loan, Daddy," Lydia scowls. But she flicks an assessing gaze up and down Derek's body, anyway.

"Of course not," Peter says, generously. "But family is family, and we look after family, don't we, my dear? It isn't a loan if it's within the pack."

"He touches me, and I'll claw his eyes out," Lydia answers, with a peaceful sort of certainty.

"So sorry about her manners," Peter says to Derek. "Looks like she needs a lesson or two."

"I _love_ it when you teach me lessons, Daddy." Lydia raises an eyebrow at Derek. "Does Derek know about our lessons, by the way?"

"I've heard about them," Derek answers, thinking back to Stiles's carefree laughter, Stiles's taunts ringing in his ears.

"And you're all right with that?"

"I don't care," Derek lies, and knows they'll be able to smell the lie on him, but not particularly caring. "Where. Is. Stiles?"

"You've already heat-bonded with him, haven't you?" Lydia tuts. "Stupid of you. He'll fuck you into mindlessness, if you aren't careful."

Derek hardly needs a warning after what he's seen of Stiles. It's been a week since Derek met him, and Derek's already starved, burning up with a lust so deep that it seems to be incinerating his bones, making every breath an effort. The full moon is high in the sky, stark and ivory-white, driving him nearly mad. There's an itch beneath his skin that makes him want to tear it off, a devouring fire in his chest threatening to flare into an inferno at any moment.

Since no one here is helping him in his quest to find Stiles, Derek excuses himself and leaves. Peter's knowing chortle follows him out, but Derek's determined to seek out Stiles's remembered scent, even if he has to scour the entirety of Beacon Hills to do it. To find where this boy 'Scott' lives.

It's strange to see his old town again, the places he use to haunt as a teenager, before Kate. The irony of it doesn't escape him - Kate had created a heat-bond with him, too, and here he is, chasing after another one, except that this time, he's the adult. He's the goddamn adult, and he should know better than to -

Stiles is _sixteen_ -

No. Derek isn't at fault, here. It's all Peter's plan, and within it, Stiles's plan, his resolve to overthrow Peter. Derek's just a pawn. He knows it, but he still can't resist, couldn't resist from the second he saw Stiles, loose-limbed and strangely graceful, smelling so fine, so _good_.

The scent picks up on a quiet suburban street, and Derek follows it to an ordinary home. There, he waits, hidden in the shadows of a night-dark tree. When he hears Stiles's voice from within the house, something within him sings, like a struck harp, and he sucks in a gulp of air. His mouth goes dry. He waits, and waits, and _waits_ , and eventually, Stiles steps out the front door, waving goodbye at whoever is inside.

Derek emerges from the shadows.

Stiles flicks a sly glance at him, and doesn't so much as pause as he strolls past the tree.

Derek reaches out, but Stiles dodges him neatly, chuckling under his breath.

"C'mon, He-Man," Stiles says. "Aren't you angry I made you wait? Don't you wanna take it out on me?"

Derek's claws slide out.

"Oh, yeah. Let's see if you can catch me, huh?"

And just like that, Stiles is off, darting away down the street, heading toward the forest. Derek gives chase, because he has to, because the hunt is upon him and Stiles is his prey.

Stiles is a pale streak ahead of him, white T-shirt and bare arms, arms Derek wants to press into the dirt before he _mounts_ -

He catches Stiles partway through the woods, claws snagging on Stiles's shirt, dragging him down among the fallen leaves. The smell of fresh earth surrounds them, and Stiles is laughing, bucking as Derek tears off his clothing.

"Impatient, are we?" Stiles smirks up at him, at last, pinned and naked, and he's so perfect that Derek literally feels himself salivate, his fangs lengthening.

"Get on your hands and knees," Derek manages, and his voice sounds jagged even to himself, rough and deep.

"I will, if you let me." Stiles pushes at Derek's shoulder, and Derek goes, reluctantly, half-believing that Stiles will try to run from him again - but Stiles just settles on all fours and lays his head down on his folded arms, his ass high and inviting as he spreads his legs.

The sight of it sends a dizzy rush of blood through Derek, and his cock - already hard in the confines of his jeans - starts leaking.

"What're you staring at me for, Derek? My ass too pretty for you?" Stiles does something that sends a slow, inviting writhe down Stiles's body, and Stiles parts his legs even further, until Derek can see how hard he is, how much Stiles needs this, as well. "Go ahead, mount me. Mount me and fuck me _hard_ , big brother."

"I'm not your brother."

"You are, now that you're part of the pack."

"I'm not part of the pack."

"Shut up and fuck me. Jesus Christ. Do you ever get laid, the way you go on?"

Derek slides his hands around Stiles's hips, hauls him closer, wonders whether he can manage to get the lube he'd remembered to bring with him out of his back pocket, the way his hands are clawed. He can't seem to make the claws go away, and they cut lightly at Stiles until Stiles hisses pleasurably.

"Oh, that's nice. Make me bleed a little. Or, heh, a lot. If you even _think_ about lube, I'll run off again, you hear me?"

"It'll hurt." The sound of Derek's breathing is loud in his own ears. This is mad, what he's doing - thinking of taking a sixteen-year-old without prep - but he can't stop, can't turn back and change anything. It all seems final, like he's jumped off a cliff, and there's no way but down. He unzips his jeans, hands shaking, his eyes fixed on Stiles.

"I _want_ it to hurt. What, you can't do it? Maybe I'll go and get Uncle Peter to do it, instead."

Derek snarls, and then he's parting Stiles's ass with his hands and entering him, just like that, no prep, nothing - and Stiles arches into it like he was made for it, a rippling clench around Derek's cock that makes Derek thrust the rest of the way in, and then thrust again, and again. Stiles's cut-off gasps and moans echo in the night around them, edged with the slight scent of blood from where Derek's claws are nicking Stiles's quick-healing skin. Derek's never done this before, never hurt someone while having sex, and the tang of blood in the air only maddens him further, only fills him with the need to take, to conquer, to _rend_.

Derek fucks Stiles harder and harder, until Stiles is rocking forward on his elbows, until Stiles's voice is a low keen broken only by demands that Derek be even rougher, that Derek fuck him ruthlessly enough to make Stiles bleed on the inside, too. Derek grunts, like he's been punched, and gives Stiles what he needs, because there's no pretending that Stiles isn't the one in control, here, that Stiles isn't calling the shots. There's a sense of surrender to it, even though Derek's the one doing the fucking; there's a sense of freedom, in giving up all thought and just doing what Stiles tells him to.

 _He's already my Alpha_ , Derek thinks, disconnectedly, and then he's coming, in a bright wave of sensation that blinds him to everything, including himself. When he comes to, the smell of Stiles's blood mingles with the thick stench of semen - both his and Stiles's - and Stiles is panting under him, face flushed and lax.

"You came," Derek says, and it's almost disbelieving.

"Of course I came," Stiles answers, after a while, sounding winded but strangely victorious. He turns over and reaches for Derek with hands that still have talons on them, and when Stiles cups Derek's face and kisses him, Stiles draws some of Derek's blood, in return. "You did me like I wanna be done," Stiles says, when he finally pulls away, patting Derek's shoulder condescendingly. "Good boy."

"My heat isn't over yet," Derek says, even though it should be, but he can feel it simmering in his veins already, as though Stiles's proximity is somehow strengthening the effect of the full moon. "I'll need you again tomorrow."

"Why tomorrow? Why not tonight? Let's fuck for the next twenty-four hours, until you're sucked dry. There's so much we could do. I could suck you. I could ride you. I _want_ to ride you. Show you your place - "

"Like you'll show Peter his place?"

"All in good time," Stiles smiles, and smooths a palm down Derek's back, drawing him close again. "All in good time."

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up, Peter's assassination.

**Author's Note:**

> Like my writing? Check out [my blog](http://saucefactory.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
